


A Northern Type Of Blue

by Deiwimin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apologies?, Get Depressed Dudes, House Bolton, Other, Poor Maester, This is super sad, Why Did I Write This?, Wrote The Abomination On A Plane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin
Summary: Wolkan the man of the hour. When he's not in action he's with himself.
Kudos: 7





	A Northern Type Of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Don't even ask!

Bony hands, spotted with age. This was Dr. Wolkan today. Time not very rewarding. All these years of training and he was still working for one of those families. Worrying through yet another display of affection or rage. Perhaps if he was a few years early, he would embrace the job. He used to expect a respective exchange of skill and honest pay.

His arms haven't given out yet, but at the tender age of sixty-three he was certain to begin shaking. Eventually.

He never quite sought to be a black physician. It only came to him after he was hired by Mr.Bolton. All there was had been filthy, dirty work. Virtue wasn't having him, and he had to move on. The money became more, but never worth it. The employer was a notoriously ruthless man. He was tired of the junior title, and so Wolkan was more than keen to take it up before he worked his life out. Hippocratic oath be damned.

It wasn't that he could not withstand the late hours, or sometimes victims, but often he would wonder. If he could have had a chance on happiness if he lived healthily. He worked so well under pressure as a youngster, but the thrill was gone now. He was much calm and methodical, the delight drained out of him at last.

Wolkan held onto this work tightly, the one thing left of normality. Somewhere along the way he developed a relationship with the Dreadfort. It was second home when he was not being called for emergencies. He had his own study and room in the estate.

There was even a cautery on standby for him. It must be at least twelve years old by now. His spare mayonnaise stand was sitting in the basement. His, because other than him, no other used it. He was in deep.

Wolkan knew this place to be the exit to ennui, but now he knows it was also where he would exit as a cadaver.

Was he already dead, he would ask to be buried somewhere damp devoid of outward light. 

After his mother passed at a hundred and one, he continued showing up whenever there would be a ring or beep. He found liking this job was never a choice. Scorching passion was leaving the moment he ended his residency, but the light, burning affection he held would lick him now and then in the form of pride. He was especially satisfied with his suture work, and connecting tissue. He had a talent for detail. Seeing the healing progress each time gave him purpose and closure.

On bad days, he wouldn't strain his mind anymore. Those were the ones with endless inner bleeding, and losing litres by the minute. He dealt with it by laughter at home. Putting on The Love Boat, or the Breaking Bad series. Then he would roll his eyes at the incoherent mumbling. 

Sometimes he pretended to be impatient, claiming to have plans. He didn't. Wolkan wasn't entirely sure why he would even be in a hurry to finish. There wasn't much when he went back up in the first place.

Each year he would tread down the moors for his nameday. Occasionally there would be a wasp, biting away at a fat caterpillar. Its exposed flesh glistens and looks like aloe vera.

This wasn't his nameday; though when it does come he should have built yet another year. His nephew and nieces shall fight over his will one day. It was amusing, rather than upsetting. He could imagine the wits of Ara and Maeren having an open war, in front of his open casket already. He was tempted to arrange for a fake heart attack, just to have something to laugh to death about.

Bolton called again. There has been an accident. As you'd say. He almost hopped back on his legs, but not exactly.

Did Roose say it was a dislocation or a replacement? He wasn't paying attention. Wolkan was always attentive, so this is bad. Maybe he needs a vac.

Then be back for some poor soul.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've just depressed myself. 😐  
> Hells know I need a real vac! 😢


End file.
